


The Sword and the Anvil

by silriven



Series: The Eastern Kingdoms Cycle [3]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Prompt Fill, Serious Injuries, Tentacles, Undercover, Wranduin Week 2020, jihui
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26309512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silriven/pseuds/silriven
Summary: Drabbles and prompt fills for Wranduin Week 2020.  Most of these are brainstorms for a possible prequel to The Temptation of Anduin Wrynn.
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: The Eastern Kingdoms Cycle [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975819
Comments: 42
Kudos: 105





	1. The Gambit of Lancelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept 8th - Tentacles
> 
> Tags/Content Warnings: hurt/comfort, alcohol, depression, chronic pain, pain relief, massage

The king’s living quarters sat high above the ground, in the tallest tower of Stormwind Keep. That much Wrathion knew as he squinted up towards the roof, claws twisting at the tip of his beard as he contemplated the architecture. A cool evening breeze tugged at his thin, olive-green tunic, but his unnaturally warm mortal body didn't register the chill. An invisibility enchantment shimmered across his skin, making his long hair twitch and slide in the air from the strange static discharge. There were guards stationed at almost every turn within the halls of the Keep itself and a not insignificant number of them patrolling outside. SI:7 agents lurked in a few of the garden trees. Which was why Wrathion knew that he had to be quick.

The dragon deftly scaled the tower, almost with the speed and abruptness of a lizard, dodging the various wards and protection spells that were supposed to prevent visitors from doing just that. They were not built to stop a mortal with claws nor one who could spontaneously sprout wings from his shoulders at will. Wrathion smirked to himself at how easy it all was. He had been slightly afraid that this escapade would end with his capture by the kingsguard, ruining his surprise visit and perhaps the king’s night.

It wasn’t long until a dark shadow vaulted over the edge of the balustrade lining the king’s balcony, knocking over a small potted ivy plant. A pair of clawed hands darted out of thin air and caught the small ceramic pot before it met an untimely end on the stone tile. The rest of the invisibility enchantment dispelled in a wave that ran across the dragons’ mortal body, from wrist to curl-toed gold embossed-pattern boots. Wrathion set the plant back in place at an appropriate distance from the others, nudging it into exact place and carefully arranging the strands of ivy. The king clearly enjoyed plants, there were a great deal of them crowded on the balcony amidst a small pair of outdoor chairs and a glass tea table.

Wrathion smoothed the front of his tunic, retying the knot of his black, silver-embroidered sash, and slipped on a pair of golden wrist bracelets he pulled from his pockets. The jewelry jangled loudly as he walked, announcing his presence to no one just yet. He unlocked the balcony doors without much thought and strode inside, head held high, looking around for the king. While searching, he drank in the sight of the king’s royal sitting parlor, a warm shiver of satisfaction running up his spine. There was a small but elaborate dining table with high-backed chairs, swept clean except for a lone, stale coffee cup. A handsome writing desk stood facing the windows, stacked with an obscene amount of paperwork and a quail’s feather pen. The tall, heavy bookcases lining the walls were crammed to the brim with texts. A dying fire sputtered in the mantle at the far end of the room, where the dragon's ears picked up the sound of a human’s irregular breathing. Wrathion threw his shoulders back and walked with confidence towards the fireplace.

The dragon froze mid-step at the sight of Anduin Wrynn, mostly unclothed and sprawled out on his back across the sofa. The king was dressed in a rumpled tunic and unbuttoned dark grey vest, in his underclothes, minus his pants. His long blond hair was falling out of its ponytail, sticking out in every direction across the cushions. The blue-gray eyes that stared back were bloodshot and glazed over in pain. Anduin’s scar-laced hands clutched an empty, stained potion bottle to his chest as if it were a hot water bottle. His bare left foot was propped up on two pillows to keep his swollen ankle elevated higher than his head. Wrathion’s gaze flickered briefly to the familiar dark red amputation scar at the end of the king's right thigh, then to the tea table, where there was a half-filled wine bottle, an open book, and a crooked stack of parchment.

Anduin’s eyes widened in shock. He made no attempt to cover himself, instead keeping his unfocused eyes trained in Wrathion’s direction. The king appeared to be processing the sight of the dragon, dark hair wild and wind-blown hair from his ascent, as he slowly lowered his empty glass onto the tea table.

Wrathion realized, in that moment, as he continued to gawk at the scene, an embarrassed flush working across his face, that he had committed an incredibly fatal error. He was not, in fact, some clever whelp sneaking around an old friend’s troublesome guards, but an intruder who had just broken into the High King of Stormwind’s quarters and violated his privacy.

Wrathion claws dug into his palms as he clenched his fists and stood waiting for the king’s judgement. He was sure the sound of his beating hearts could be heard from anywhere in the room as he watched Anduin’s eyes narrow.

“Please excuse the mess.” 

Wrathion flinched at the sound of self-loathing in the king’s voice. Anduin slowly pushed himself up into a seated position, knocking over the stack of pillows his foot had been resting upon. 

“I was not expecting company.”

“Forgive me for disturbing you, your Majesty,” Wrathion’s own voice was dry and uncharacteristically somber. “I’ll take my leave immediately-”

“No, no,” Anduin interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm, as he bent over to grope for his crutches. “ _I insist_ that you stay and make yourself comfortable. Let me just change into something more _presentable_.”

Wrathion kept one eye on the king’s back as he swung into the bedroom on his crutches, slamming the great ornate doors behind him. With the click of the lock, Wrathion exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, black smoke shooting out both his nostrils and mouth, curling into the air around him. He glanced toward the nearest window and considered throwing himself out it at once. He then reasoned with himself that it would be far better to take his chances with staying put. If he was going to risk a second execution, he may as well try to get what he had come for.

The Black Prince crossed the parlor to a half-opened hutch sitting against the wall next to the fireplace, which held extra bottles of liquor and wine. He spotted a jeweled, square-ish bottle of golden whiskey and his claws snatched it, grabbing a similarly angular glass. He closed the cabinet doors properly and brought his spoils back to the tea table in front of the fireplace. Wrathion then knelt at the fireplace hearth and rolled up his sleeves above the elbow, using his bare hands to slide in two more additional logs from the stack in the iron cradle sitting beside the mantle. With his fingers and claws, he adjusted the wood on top of what remained, murmuring a quick enchantment as he worked to stoke the flames higher. Soon proper warmth began to spill out into the room and the glow made the parlor seem a fraction less gloomy.

Wrathion finally settled into the armchair perpendicular to the sofa and poured himself a generous glass of the whiskey. As he waited, he tried to steady his nerves by casting more cleaning enchantments. One flick of his fingers dissolved the sticky wine stains from the surface of the tea table. Another put the cork back into the bottle. A third gesture neatly straightened the pile of paperwork. He tried to keep his keen eyes from reading too much text from the one on top. There was a problem with the grain supply in Westfall; it would be a hard winter for bread unless the king could think of some way to solve the problem.

The dragon was just beginning to worry that the king had changed his mind and decided to turn in for the night when the bedroom chamber’s doors opened again. King Anduin strode out, his shoulders thrown back and chin raised high in defiance as he limped on every other step. He’d traded the crutches for his prosthesis and donned a pair of well-tailored, slim-fitted breeches that matched the fresh, elaborately embroidered charcoal silk tunic. His long blond hair was now immaculately combed, the ponytail neatly re-tied at the nape of his neck. His face was puffy and red, as if he had just scrubbed it with cold water and soap, but all being said and done, he now looked more like he was prepared for an important dinner party than an impromptu meeting with an intruder beside his hearth. 

Wrathion kept his head low, pretending to be more interested in studying the ripples in his glass of whiskey, as out of the corner of one sharp eye he watched the king. Anduin slowly made his way over to the sofa, face pulled taught with pain. A faint whiff of cologne made Wrathion’s nostril’s flare as the other man limped past. The king eased himself into a seated position with a low, quiet whine that Wrathion would never have heard without the keen ears of a dragon.

“I see you’ve found the whiskey,” Anduin noted as he reached over to pour himself another glass of wine.

“I have,” Wrathion admitted, swirling the liquid in his own cup, elbow resting on his knee. “I thought I would take the opportunity to indulge, seeing as Your Majesty has an impressive selection at your disposal--”

“Please, don’t mock me with formalities, Wrathion,” Anduin sounded tired as he leaned back, crossing his bare foot over his artificial knee. “You’ve already declared yourself to be on a first name basis before my spymaster, my personal bodyguard, and various high-ranking members of both the Alliance and the Horde. Why is ‘Anduin’ insufficient now, when it’s just the two of us?” 

Wrathion winced at the memory. Another gross miscalculation. He seemed to be making a lot of them, as of late.

“Forgive me, _Anduin_ ,” he corrected, softly. “It was not my intent to mock you. It was a poor attempt to mend my transgression for intruding on you.”

Anduin said nothing for a moment, studying him as he drank his wine. Wrathion narrowed his vision a fraction, concentrating on filtering out the natural light to focus on other neighboring wavelengths. The dragon discerned traces of dark shades around the other man’s profile. From the way they moved and the sight of them pricked at the back of his own mind, he knew they were residue from the Void. Anduin was not intentionally calling the shadows, though. He did not seem to even be aware of their hold on him, more worryingly it seemed to be because he had become accustomed to their presence, binding him to feelings of doubt, paranoia, and despair. N’zoth was gone, but this was the remaining undercurrent that had yet to dissipate, tendrils and tentacles of darkness left in the wake of the Old God’s hold on him. Anduin had surrendered to them. They coiled comfortably within his mind and his breast. No amount of coalescing visions would loosen their hold; only time and peace would weed them out.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Anduin said, suddenly, the darkness slipping out over his tongue. Wrathion’s vision, still attuned to the unholy wavelengths, saw it manifest as two long, dark tentacles that slipped from the man’s mouth. “What did you think would happen, if you snuck in? That you would climb up the tower, slip in here, then join me for card games and beer under the covers again?”

Wrathion grimaced. If he had to be brutally honest with himself, he did, in fact, expect something just like that. Not the part about the covers, he was not so inept to the gulf that stood between them and even a tentative friendship. But he had indulged himself in an embarrassingly specific vision a number of times since his return to Stormwind after the defeat of N’zoth: the king sitting at his desk or deep in thought as he stood somewhere in the room, still dressed in his regal court silks or perhaps a pair of comfortable cotton pajamas like the kind he used to wear when he was relaxing in the evenings at the Tavern. When he noticed the dragon’s approach, a brief look of fear and perhaps even awe would momentarily flash in the king’s eyes before softening into a grudgingly impressed smirk. Anduin would clap sarcastically or shake his head. Wrathion would throw out some clever off-the-cuff quip about the inadequacies of the kingsguard. However it happened, the end result would always be the two of them butting heads over a friendly competitive board or card game while reminiscing together.

“I...incorrectly assumed that you would appreciate some company,” Wrathion tried, feeling his blush intensify. He was grateful for the dark firelight, hoping it would shield his embarrassment. His fingers were shaking as they gripped the whiskey glass. That too, would hopefully be hidden in the dark.

“You presume too much,” Anduin snorted into his wine glass, turning his head away in disgust as he took another long drink. The dark tentacles wound around his throat like a collar, reaching out as if to chain his wrist to it. “But that’s nothing new.”

Wrathion tore his eyes away and focused on golden waves in the whiskey as he tilted the glass at different angles. He listened to the king’s breath hitch. When he looked up, he found that Anduin had put the wine glass on the table, letting his face drop into his hands. He combed his fingers through his golden hair, strands working out of the ponytail to inevitably ruin it once again. The tentacles of void were dragging him towards the floor, piercing his breast as if to squeeze at his heart and lungs.

Anduin’s breath sucked in like a gasp. 

“I am not angry,” the king said, suddenly, too the ground between his feet, his speech restrained as if he was having trouble breathing. “Don’t...please don’t be afraid. I can see that you are. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you.”

Wrathion faltered. It was his turn to draw in a warm, quiet breath before speaking:

“Let us drop this facade,” the dragon heard himself suggest, gently. “You and I both know full well that we have seen each other under far more compromising circumstances. If you are in pain, my old friend, you ought to lie down.”

Anduin lifted his head and slumped back. For a moment, he just stared into the fire, looking utterly drained. After a moment, though, he turned sideways, lifting his legs once again to stretch out across the length. He picked up the pillows off the floor and stacked them beneath his left foot before falling back, hands stiff like a board by his sides. Dark, bruised purple Void tendrils undulated with the rise and fall of his chest while he glared at the ceiling.

“What happened to your ankle?” Wrathion ventured.

“Sprained it,” Anduin muttered. “Like a fool, going too quickly up the stairs. The rain yesterday, I was in a rush and I didn’t clean off my boots properly. Serves me right for making the servants' lives more difficult by trailing puddles everywhere.”

Somehow, the strength of the shadowy halo surrounding the king dimmed.

“That’s not the problem, though,” Anduin continued. “The rains always make the bone pain worse, but the extra medicine isn’t helping. I’ve been in agony for three straight days. I haven’t been able to sleep through the night.”

His candidness took Wrathion by surprise for the second time that evening. The dragon bowed his head, realized he had been tapping his claws against the glass, and clenched his hands more tightly.

“Can you not use the healing powers of the Light?” Wrathion suggested. “Surely your healing abilities have only grown since we last discussed this?”

Anduin shook his head. Wrathion’s eyes snapped to the king’s fingertips, glowing with the familiar golden white resonance. The tentacles scattered from the Light like oil in water, but they still curled around the king’s ankles, twisting about the crown of his head, waiting.

“It’s a temporary reprieve,” Anduin murmured, eyes closing as he ran one hand over his thigh, the other over his chest. Wrathion watched the warmth spread deep into the king’s muscle and bone. Anduin sighed, spine arching with relief. “Sometimes it helps. But I cannot spend my entire day in bed, praying.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Wrathion’s mouth, the Devil’s advocate rising: “Why not? You are the king. What good is such a title if it cannot be used to steal a day off or two to recover?”

Anduin shook his head again. His eyes opened, and this time there was almost a film of tears. The Light abated and the shadows stretched to cover his entire body again.

“There’s too much to do,” he said. “I cannot afford to lose even half a day. Wars are so expensive; they take a toll on everything. The mass burials for soldiers, the depleated iron reserves, the neglected farms, the drained treasury coffers….it will be years before the Alliance recovers from this. I expect the Horde is in a similar state. And Sylvanas...”

Anduin covered his face with his hand, cutting himself off with a groan that slipped into a sigh. The shadows twisted around his limbs, binding him in a tight, choking embrace. 

Wrathion made a decision and set his glass down at the table with a little more force than he’d intended. The liquor spurned his boldness, and he quickly rose to cross the distance between the armchair and the sofa. Pins and needles pricked in the back of the dragon’s mind as he felt the residue of the Old Gods warily respond to his approach. Wrathion was no longer afraid, though. Years of honing his mind to resist the whispers pushed back against the barbs of insanity. It all seemed far more pathetic and conquerable clinging to the king’s delicate, scar-laced skin, like a puzzle to wrench from the king’s weary hands.

He sat down at the other end of the couch, lifting the king’s ankles and scooting underneath, so that Anduin’s calves came to rest across the tops of his thighs. Anduin peeked out from underneath the edge of his hand, face turning red as he realized what was happening.

“Wrathion, don’t, you are my guest.”

“I am aware,” Wrathion replied, cupping his hands around the king’s bare foot. The muscles felt cold and tense beneath his fingers as he began to work the tension from the limb. It was a cover, the motion hiding the sparks of enchantments seeping from his fingers into Anduin’s skin. Wrathion muttered a dark counter-spell under his breath. "I did used to do this for you on occasion, if you recall."

Out of the corner of his eye, the dragon tried to gauge the king’s reaction. Anduin appeared to be rapidly losing his royal composure. He struggled against it, shoulders stiffening and blond brows knitting as he tried to tense himself up.

“...it’s...different now. Back then, we were both princes. I am the king. There’s a power imbalance.”

“True,” Wrathion replied, satisfied that the shadows seemed to be abating. “But, even the High King of the Alliance hardly has enough power to force a dragon to attend to him.”

It was a bit of a fib. Fear of force in retaliation had hounded him in the days leading up to his first visit to Stormwind. He never would have done so without Magni, the Speaker for Azeroth Herself, by his side as his chaperone. This answer seemed to placate Anduin, though, who at last fell back into the pillows, letting his hand fall from his face and rest on top of his chest. His eyelids fluttered, gazing over at the dragon behind his blond eyelashes.

“Consider this an apology for spoiling your evening,” Wrathion assured, as gently as he could.

Anduin began to sink deeper into the sofa, hair pushing farther and farther from the confines of its leather band. He murmured from both slight pain, but mostly relief, as Wrathion softened the sore muscles. The dark tendrils retreated even further, barely perceptible now, more like an optical illusion than a force to be frightened of.

“There wasn’t much of an evening to spoil,” the king murmured. “...your hands are so warm…I’d forgotten how warm…”

“I believe you need to obtain a pair of thicker socks, Your Majesty,” Wrathion said wryly as he cupped his palms around Anduin’s toes. He held them for a moment or two, until they no longer felt like ice.

“...it’s just the approaching autumn weather…” Anduin slurred, now visibly struggling to fend off sleep. “...I can’t seem to fend it off, no matter how many layers I wear...”

Wrathion rumbled, a deep, draconic sound in his chest, as he massaged a particularly stubborn lump under a thick scar. “I recall that, as well.”

Anduin was asleep before the last word left the dragon’s mouth. Wrathion remained mostly still, watching, using the palm of his hands to keep the king’s foot warm. The tendrils of void were completely gone, leaving just a tired human bathed in the soothing glow of the firelight. Anduin’s expression had softened, the lines of pain were gone from his brow. His hands curled around his chest, as if they were searching for something to cling to.

When he was satisfied that Anduin was deep enough in sleep for the movement not to rouse him, Wrathion carefully lifted the king’s legs and slid out from underneath. He took the thick, decorative quilt that lay across the back of the sofa and laid it across Anduin’s body, careful to tuck the hems so that they both covered his neck and encased both his real and metal foot from the chill in the room. Anduin sighed in contentment and shifted to burrow further under the warmth of the quilt until most of his face was covered, a small peak in the fabric allowing some fresh air to slip underneath. Part of Wrathion longed to reach out and touch the king's face, to lay a kiss across his brow, to inhale the long-forgotten scent of his hair, to curl up beside him once again and share the warmth and companionship that kept the nightmares at bay. But that would be presuming too much. Wrathion knew, with a heavy, leaden weight in his hearts, that he had overstayed his welcome.

The dragon used a small enchantment to clean the surface of the tea table and the glassware, ensuring that both the whiskey and wine were put away in the hutch. Checking the fire one last time, he placed one more log onto the fire to ensure that it would keep Anduin warm for the remainder of the night. The Black Prince then crept across the parlor floor, quiet as a ghost, and slipped back through the balcony doors, shutting the latch behind him to keep out the autumn chill. He stared out across the city for a moment, searching and failing to find his makeshift apartment in the mess of windows filled with dying candlelights. In all of his calculations, he did not account for the evening to end with such a pang of loneliness. He only hoped that he had mended enough of the night to ensure that he would be welcomed once again into the king's council as an advisor some day.


	2. The Ascension of Galahad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept 9th - Enemies to Lovers
> 
> Tags/Content Warnings: alcohol, violence/blood/wounds

“So soon?” Wrathion asked, unable to prevent the look of unguarded disdain from falling across his face.

“...oh, aye,” Magni nodded, transparent eyes narrowing with confusion at the dragon’s sudden disinterest in travel. Normally he leapt at any chance he could get to stretch his wings or legs. “I’m sorry to ask it of you. I know the weather this time of year is wretched, but I cannot figure out another way to get a messenger there and back so quickly.”

They stood side by side, overlooking the vast pit where the sword of Sargeras plunged into the crust of Silithus’ sandy ground. Waves of pure energy radiated from the fissures, bathing the dragon, the crystal dwarf, and the surrounding black and white silt dunes in rays of soft yellow-blue light. It looked particularly beautiful filtered through the dwarf’s semi-transparent figure; the particles danced and refracted into purple rainbows through clusters of Magni’s hair and beard. It would have been beautiful, if not for the persistent sense of unease that gripped at the back of Wrathion’s mind every time he spent too long looking over the scene. Magni, he was certain, felt far worse. The Speaker was attuned to Azeroth in a way that Wrathion was certain no black dragon ever would be again. Undoubtedly, the dwarf heard Her screams of agony when the pain for the sleeping Titan became unbearable.

“Do you think the Horde and the Alliance have enough resources to spare us even a few shamans?” Weariness tinged the dragon’s voice as he spoke.

“Oh, there’s got to be one or two souls in Orgrimmar or Stormwind who aren’t adapting to peacetime, or are simply eager to escape the winter weather,” the dwarf retorted, unperturbed by the logistics. “I’m sure you’ll have little trouble scrounging up volunteers.”

Wrathion knew that Magni was right. The dragon was not dreading the trip to Orgrimmar; there was always something interesting to explore in the Horde’s great melting pot of desert canyons and huts. For his troubles, he would certainly pick up some new trinket or tome that piqued his interest. The taverns in Orgrimmar were host to an abundance of colorful conversations pertaining to all kinds of magic, rumor, and lore. Between the tauren and the sin’dorei, there was no better place to check the pulse of Azeroth’s kingdoms in the waning months after the arduous Fourth War.

Stormwind City was another story. The jewel of the Alliance had bleed too many resources and was not as receptive to nosy visitors who most likely would become another mouth to feed. And Wrathion was not looking forward to speaking to the High King again. Memories of their last, tense spontaneous meeting made the dragon squirm when he was trying to settle in his cot at night. The very thought of having to make eye contact with Anduin again, in the professional reverence of the Throne Room, was, well, torture.

“Unless you think I should send your brother in your place?”

Wrathion turned, abruptly, to exchange a look with Magni. The crystal at the corner of the dwarf’s mouth twitched and the dragon likewise suppressed a smile.

“Thought not,” Magni grunted. “I appreciate it. I know it’s not a short trip.”

“It’s not the journey that worries me,” Wrathion admitted. After a moment of struggling with how to express the tangle of emotion in his mind, watching a particularly angry steam vent exhale golden blue mist, he carefully added: “King Anduin has quite a lot on his plate. I almost feel guilty asking anything more of him.”

Magni chuckled, a strange, hollow sound that rattled in his chest. “That’s the unfortunate burden of the crown. Believe me, I’m just as wary about adding even a pebble’s more weight to it. This is more a formality than anything. The Alliance aligned members of the Earthen Ring will handle most of the logistics themselves and get the word out for volunteers in the city. We just need his permission to talk to them.”

Back in his tent, Wrathion set about packing his travel bag, milling around the space and pretending to tidy up things which were either already clean or messy in the precise way that he wanted them to be, such as the landscape of books and parchment covering his makeshift desk. He folded a few of his most court-worthy spare tunics along with a long bundle of narrow cloth should he desire a turban to keep his hair away from the traveling dust. He threw in a small paperback book of gnomish theory on fluid dynamics that he was currently mulling over. He slipped in a few choice spools of embroidery thread, enough colors to make something that could pass for a rainbow, along with a package of needles and the scraps of test fabric he was using to design a fresh cloak. The needlework would keep his claws busy while he endured long stretches of time riding in boats or the backs of traveling wagons. He secured rolls of enchanting vellums and bottles of dust in case he needed to scribble enchantments to barter for passage or other curious items along the way. On the very top he set a birch and pine cone Highmountain fetish, a gift from Ebyssian. The elder black dragon claimed that such an item kept nightmares away, which Wrathion doubted, but he cherished the thought nevertheless.

Wrathion tried to use the series of tasks to distract him from his haphazard thoughts. Knowing that he would see Anduin again brought a frightening cold joy of anticipation to his chest. Hearing the king speak, seeing the subtle changes in his expression, exchanging witty banter. Just as quickly, the dragon would swing back down to a dark, sinking despair at the thought of enduring the king’s distant, even cold gaze. Then came the rage at himself for succumbing to such a petty worry as the humor of a human king. Wrathion was a dragon, the son of an Aspect of the Earth, a guardian of Azeroth Herself. What was he doing, allowing his feelings to be altered by the petty, fickle moods of a mortal? There were plenty of others, and even dragons, who would easily return his affections, some a stone’s throw away in Magni’s very camp, should he choose to pursue friendship or even a relationship. Surely there were better ways of relieving the ache in his chest than the anticipation of a monthly visit to Stormwind only to exchange terse words with the High King from the confines of Stormwind Keep’s stifling meeting rooms or worse, the Lion’s Seat. What did he expect King Anduin to do? What did he, Wrathion, even _want_?

There was no answer to be found in his tent, just his own shadow cast by the light of the table lantern, lengthening across the heavy burlap as the sun set over the desert outside.

* * *

Magni was not exaggerating about the unpleasantness of the mid-southern region of the Eastern Kingdoms in the winter. The skies were iron grey and the winds bitterly cold. It mattered little to Wrathion; his internal body heat kept him warm like an engine. Flecks of snow melted on his hair and shoulders as he walked the slush-soaked dirt roads from Grom’gol through Duskwood. When he opened his mouth and extended his tongue, the flakes dissolved before they could even touch the forked surface. Other travelers were irate and bundled against the cold, in too much of a hurry to get to their destinations to be charitable to small talk. Wrathion realized, quickly, that he should have dressed in thicker garments to at least pretend that he needed them. When travelers saw him in only his simple leather, long-tailed jacket, their eyes would narrow with suspicion, deeming him not-mortal long before they could register the trails of red smoke from his crimson eyes through the curtains of white snow.

Despite the neverending cascade of unwanted stares, Wrathion managed to enter the bounds of Stormwind City without much incident. He lingered too long in the streets, drawn to the strange, temporary decorations that were now hanging from almost every wall and roof. Lights of red, green, and white were strung from tree branches and even traveling carts. Rich, spiced-smelling pine trees had been brought in from the dwarven lands and adorned with glass blown decorations and fake stars. Priests stood with red buckets, banging bells, on the street corners asking for donations and Wrathion managed to scrounge up a few coins to give in exchange for lukewarm greetings. The coin of a dragon was not so tainted that it couldn’t be put to use by the clergy of Stormwind.

After securing lodgings in the Pig and Whistle, Wrathion took a long, indulgent bath, scrubbing the grit and salt of the roads from his skin and hair. He dressed in a fresh tunic, once again lamenting the lightness of his clothes. He would look ridiculous strolling up to the Keep in the same summer-appropriate fabrics that had earned him nods of respect from the sin’dorei on the sandy streets of Orgrimmar. He steeled himself, checking his beard in the bathroom mirror to ensure that it was neatly groomed, smoothing the point at his chin. He reapplied his makeup, dark kohl and shadow to both red eyes, and clipped in his gold jewelry. At the last moment, he dabbed a bit of amber oil on his wrists and beneath his chin. The oil was a gift from a draenei, who had shared a tent with him at the Elwynn Forest border while they waited out a bitter squall.

Stormwind Keep was similarly decked out in dark green pine needles and white lights. Wrathion curiously eyed the decorations as he was led though the cold stone halls towards the War Room, where the king was holding court. Despite himself, the dragon felt his hearts begin to pound and an unbearable happiness spread outward from his chest. Stormwind was not his home, he reminded himself, it was cold in both its attitude and comforts. It would be easier in the long run if he did not set himself and his lofty expectations up for disappointment.

The servant threw out her arm, nearly knocking the wind out of Wrathion’s mortal lungs as he stepped into her surprisingly strong elbow. He was snapped out of the churning mess of his internal apprehensions by the sight of a scuffle before him and the unmistakable iron scent of human blood. The War Room was not unfamiliar to him, a giant stone hall like any other within the Keep. Velvet war banners, shields, and weapons decorating the walls, a roaring fire blazed in a giant mantleplace exuding strong waves of heat. Tables were strewn around the room, laid with a map charting the known territory of Azeroth. The largest one standing in the center where the king’s cane leaned surreptitiously by the side. Wooden tokens marked the movement of clusters of bodies which were of importance to the High King and his advisors, be it troops or trade routes. The king himself was not currently interested in the map. His attention was drawn to stifling the conflict between two noblemen who were attacking each other in the middle of the room.

A nobleman lay on the ground, bleeding, from a knife wound that had torn right through the fine, dark fabric of his breeches and struck a vein or two in his shin. He rocked through the pain, dripping thick blood onto the polished wood floor, while two other nobles tended to him. King Anduin stood in front of the prone figure, a white gold shield guarding him from his attacker: an enraged noble who still held a bloodstained knife. Anduin’s hands were raised, his face calm, as if he were soothing an angry dog. 

Wrathion could only watch, stunned in surprise, as the king dropped the shield and took a tentative step forward. One gloved hand reached out to clasp the angry nobleman’s shoulder, the other coming to rest on the hand that clenched the blood-splattered weapon, pushing it down as he stepped closer. Anduin’s lips were moving, he was murmuring words that were only meant to be heard by the attacker and the attacker alone. His expression was unrelentingly gentle, blue-grey eyes steady; they carried no emotion other than benign understanding. 

The attacker began to relax, arms dropping to hang loose by his sides. He nodded in acceptance of something the king said and extended his free hand. Anduin clasped the offered hand between both of his, and his blond lashes lowered. White gold light emanated from the king’s eyes and spread out from his palms, seeping into the nobleman’s body through their entwined hands. The king was laying a blessing, channeling the Light to bring physical peace to the noble’s troubled psyche. At last, the attacker slipped his hand from the king’s to tug a handkerchief from his pocket, using it to clean the blood from his dagger. Anduin gave the noble another reassuring touch on the back of the shoulder blade, guiding him gently but firmly towards the door. There were tears welling in the now calm nobleman’s eyes.

Wrathion came back into himself in this moment, when the king’s eyes flickered to meet his own, as if noticing the dragon for the first time. Wrathion’s hearts skipped a beat and his face froze, torn between the need to both smile charmingly and drop open from the horror of the scene. The end result was his lips pulling back in a grimace, showing his sharp, clenched teeth.

“One moment, please,” Anduin said, calmly, to both Wrathion and the servant, who stepped aside to let the nobleman pass. The other man had begun to weep into his palm before he disappeared down the hall. “I will be right with you, Black Prince.”

Anduin turned his back before Wrathion had a chance to even open his mouth and limped towards the commotion in the center of the room, where the injured noble still sat prone on the floor. The nobleman had recovered enough to turn his fear into anger and he shouted something at the king, slapping away the hand extended to him. Anduin knelt down and continued to speak, once again in a voice so low that it could not be heard by anyone else in the room. 

Wrathion tore his eyes away only to exchange a tentative glance with the servant, who invited him to enter the room properly with a sympathetic smile and a sweeping gesture of her arm. Unlike him, she did not seem particularly shocked by the sight of bickering nobles drawing blood in the king’s presence. She left the dragon to linger at the outskirts of the room, a safe distance away from a small cluster of nobles who had gathered around a table piled with trays of lunch meats and fried potato slices to discuss the scene like vultures in waiting.

A warm, white glow enveloped the space where Anduin knelt with his gloved hands lain across the wound on the prone nobleman’s injured leg. The flow of blood abated as the wound quickly clotted. The servant who had escorted Wrathion now stood at the king’s side. Anduin smiled kindly up at her, uttering quiet thanks as she wordlessly passed him a roll of bandages from her apron pocket. The king swiftly tied a cut of the medical fabric around the nobleman’s shin, then helped the injured man stand up. The injured noble seemed no worse for his wound, although his dignity was most certainly bruised. With another soothing pat on the shoulder, the nobleman began to limp from the room on his own accord, escorted by the king’s servant.

The tension in the room thinned. Wrathion’s keen red eyes darted around to take in the sight of advisors and visiting nobles resuming their stations, attending to whatever they had been doing before the scuffle had broken out, now with more food and cups of wine in their hands. The king stood alone in the center of the room, staring off at the window in the far wall. Though inside, Anduin was dressed as if he intended to take a long walk through the winter woods. His shoulders slumped beneath the plump, wolf’s fur collar of his thick, floor-length brown wool cloak. A scarf wound high around his neck, the puff of his jacket betraying the many layers he wore underneath. The tips of his ears, peeking out from either side of his high ponytail, were bright red and bloodless.

Wrathion made the decision to take advantage of the king’s distraction and leave, at once. He turned his back and was swiftly making his way across the cold stone floor when a familiar voice called out after him: “Your Highness! My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

The dragon turned and found the king moving toward him, one hand extended in greeting, a tired but warm smile on his face. The welcome took Wrathion by surprise, he could only stare back, feeling a strange lightheadedness overcome him as he clasped Anduin’s hand briefly. The king’s brows furrowed slightly.

“Are you not cold, Prince Wrathion?” he asked, tilting his head slightly to one side as he studied the dragon’s light attire. “Would you like me to see if I can send someone to find a cloak for you?”

As if snapping out of a dream, Wrathion shook his head, a genuine smile crossing his face.

“No, thank you, Your Majesty. The Eastern Kingdom’s winter climate isn’t nearly cold enough to affect me. I can assure you that the blood of the black dragonflight runs very hot.”

Anduin smiled, raising his own hands to rub the palms together as he suppressed a shiver. “I can’t say I’m not envious. Would you come speak with me by the fire for a moment?”

“Certainly, Your Majesty.”

Wrathion clasped his hands behind his back as he made his way across the room, one step behind the king. He was aware of the curious eyes that were following them from around the room. They wouldn’t be able to speak without an audience, but the fireplace was on the opposite end from where most of the king’s council now gathered, holding leisurely conversations as they took their lunch. Though Wrathion did not require it, he nonetheless enjoyed stepping into the great halo of warmth from the fire. Anduin sighed, raising his hands to hold them out towards the flames and warm his fingers through the fine, soft leather.

“What brings you to Stormwind, Prince Wrathion?”

Wrathion delivered Magni’s report, offering the bundle of documents the dwarf had instructed him to deliver. The king briefly flipped through them while he listened, nodding and offering an occasional question of clarification. He granted Wrathion permission to approach the branch of the Earthen Ring that resided in Stormwind and ask for as many volunteers as were willing to travel to Silithus.

“This sounds like it will take some time,” Anduin said, slipping the documents into the folds of his cloak so that his hands were free to rest in front of the fire again. “I can offer you a spare room in the Keep if you’d like, so that you don’t need to rush.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, that won’t be necessary. I do intend to stay for at least another day. I have rented proper accommodations in Old Town.”

The king nodded, pursing his lips as he studied the mantle. Garlands of pine needles adorned with gleaming gold and blue stars were strung across the great white marble. White pillar candles were secured amongst the green, their soft flames flickering across the metal of the crossed swords and shields hung on the brick above them.

“...I’m sure the place you’re staying must have adequate food, but if your business in town allows for it, would you like to join me for dinner tonight?”

Wrathion, startled by the king’s quiet question, tore his gaze from the decorations to find the king tentatively turned towards him. Anduin’s face was spotted red from standing so close to the intense heat, his serious eyes wide and one brow raised in a guarded, quizzical expression.

“It would be my honor,” Wrathion heard himself say, his voice matched in tone, without taking a moment to think, excitement buzzing in his chest. 

A brief smile flickered across Anduin’s face as he nodded and quickly turned to face the fire once again, curling and uncurling his outstretched fingers.

“Do you have any requests? I can have the cooks prepare whatever you’d like.”

Wrathion smirked and tilted his face towards the top of the mantle as he considered, clasping his hands behind his back as he rocked forward and backward from the balls of his boots to his heels. “Something warm would suffice, I should think.”

“Very well, I think my staff can manage that,” Anduin gave Wrathion another reserved, court-appropriate smile. He seemed as if he would walk away, but then he leaned in, inhaling. Wrathion felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

“...ah, forgive me…” Anduin’s face flushed red, eyes darting up. “...your perfume, it smells...familiar…”

“Ah,” Wrathion’s face also reddened, bracelets clinking as he extended his wrist. “A gift from a friend I made along the road; a draenei making his way south.”

“Oh,” a smile flickered across the king’s face as he dipped closer, raising his fingers lightly to touch the back of Wrathion’s hand. “That’s right, I remember, this was a popular cologne that the draenei men of the Exodar liked to wear…”

Wrathion’s claws twitched, the subtle heat from the king’s fingers spreading in a pleasant way across his knuckles.

“If it’s unpleasant, I’ll wash it off before I arrive tonight,” the dragon said.

Anduin’s blush deepened and he dropped his hand at once. “No, not at all...it’s not unpleasant, please, wear it, if you like.”

Wrathion clasped his hands behind his back, tightening the grip of his claws to suppress the strange tingling left in the wake of Anduin’s touch. He managed a smirk and a nod as the king turned to make his way back into the chill of the room.

* * *

Journeying to the king’s quarters through the proper, respectable channels took a great deal longer than scrambling up the wall. Escorted by two of the Keep’s guards, Wrathion stood before the parlor doors a great deal less physically rattled and wind-blown, but far more emotionally frazzled. His jaw clenched as he stared at the woodwork, hearts pounding, tired of being surrounded by the persistent rattle of boots and plate armor. The doors opened to the warmth and bright candlelight, accompanied by Anduin’s welcome.

“Thank you both. Please, come in, Prince Wrathion.” The king smoothly beckoned Wrathion to step from the circle of guards, shutting out the chill of the hall.

A proper fire was roaring in the fireplace, candles lit to chase away the early winter darkness. Anduin was not quite as bundled up as he had been earlier that day in the War Room, wearing an open robe over a thick, long-sleeved tunic, comfortable looking breeches, and thick fur-lined boots. His golden hair hung loose over his shoulders, slightly damp, as if he had recently washed it. He looked as relaxed as Wrathion had ever seen him since his return.

“How was the rest of your day?” The king asked, carrying a wine bottle and two glasses over to the table.

“Uneventful,” Wrathion offered as he took soft, tentative steps into the room. He took advantage of the fact that Anduin was distracted by uncorking the wine bottle and tried to gauge the measure of the Old Gods’ corruption. The dark miasma was still there, but dormant, the ripples quiet like the surface of a pond on a clear day over the king’s heart.

“And yours, Your Majesty?” Wrathion asked, gaze running from the heels of Anduin’s boots to the tip of his head, searching for signs of unruly shadows.

“I wish I could say it was uneventful,” Anduin sighed, wrenching the last inch of cork free from the lips of the dark green bottle with a smooth _pop_. “But I don’t wish to bore you with the details...I, er, literally cannot in some cases; a few meetings were confidential.”

Dinner was ready and waiting on the king’s table, two large, covered porcelain bowls sat in adjoining place settings at one corner. A basket of warm, golden sweet bean buns decorated with sesame seeds waited in the center beside an iron pot of green tea. Wrathion slipped into the seat Anduin indicated for him at the head, accepting the glass of wine the king poured for him.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Anduin said, eyes widening as he stared at the bottle in his hands with disdain. “I should have asked. Would you prefer whiskey?”

“No, thank you, I’m sure wine accompanies the meal better,” Wrathion gave his best reassuring smile and took a large sip of Dalaran Red.

“I hope you don’t mind that I asked the cooks to attempt an Eastern Kingdoms version of pho,” Anduin raised both hands to sweep around the smooth shell of his ears, ensuring that his hair was tucked behind them. As soon as his fingers dropped, however, a few blond strands fell forward to frame his face. “I tried to stress that it should be as hot as possible, but I’m afraid it probably won’t be to your standards.”

Wrathion removed the smooth plate cover and took a deep breath. The broth was rich and thick with flavor from the meat and onions. Chunks of roasted beef floated in the center on a bed of soft yellow noodles. Circles of green onion and carrot dotted the surface, interspersed with sprigs of basil. It smelled more like a good hearty stew native to the region than the pho he had enjoyed in Pandaria, but somewhere in the mix of spices, there was the unmistakable heat of some kind of pepper.

“I could bring some proper spices and hot sauce back from Orgrimmar during my next visit,” Wrathion suggested, using the spoon to swirl noodles with his chopsticks. “My usual path from Silithus takes me there first, it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

A genuine smile crossed the king’s face. He was not eating, he sat with his hands cupped around the bowl, soaking in the heat. 

“Since the armistice, we’ve been tentatively exchanging gifts with the Horde Council,” Anduin explained. “I’ve actually been hoping that they would send some of those ghost peppers that they grow in the Echo Isles, but I think they’re afraid it would accidentally kill someone who tried to cook with it and be taken as an act of culinary war.”

“Perhaps I can seed a rumor or two in the Valley of Honor that the High King of the Alliance has a high tolerance for heat, to assuage their fears,” Wrathion said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Anduin laughed, his face flushing. “Please, if you could put your talents to this use, I would be appreciative.”

His face grew more serious, the conversation stilting, only the sounds of slurping noodles filling the parlor. Wrathion couldn’t help but notice that Anduin was not eating with the vigor that he remembered, sipping at the broth and nibbling at the meat, leaving most of it untouched. While Wrathion continued to devour his portion, taking breaks to enjoy the soft sweet bread of the red bean buns, Anduin ran the corner of his napkin across his mouth, studying his place setting.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior, the last time you were here,” he said, at last.

Wrathion nearly lost purchase on his chopsticks. He looked up, startled, a loose noodle falling over into his beard before he nipped it with his fang and sucked it back in.

“I don’t believe an apology is warranted,” the dragon said in a quick attempt to recover his dignity.

Anduin nodded, his face serious, running a hand across the back of his neck. “...still, you should have it, all the same. And you should know that your company is not...unappreciated.”

Wrathion felt his mouth go dry. The king, His Majesty, Anduin, was now meeting his gaze directly, his eyes wide and vulnerable. The measured temperament of the man who needed to shield himself and others for the good of his kingdom was, for the moment at least, gone.

“...it’s something I’ve missed.”

Anduin’s chest was visibly expanding and contracting with his now deep, strained breaths. Wrathion felt his own mind ringing, his thoughts racing so quickly they had blurred together in almost white noise, and he struggled to find something to say. He tried to find some way to gain control over the situation, to weave some cool response to counter the king’s words, to smirk.

“I’ve yet to find someone on Azeroth or Draenor who is a match for your skills at board games,” was what slipped out instead.

Wrathion felt heat rise to his face. This was not perhaps _the_ most inconsiderate thing he could have said, but it was far from what he _wanted_ to say, but could not. Anduin’s expression closed, his grey-blue eyes hardening to that of a king’s once again, but this time he returned a smirk.

“Well, if you have time to spare,” he placed a finger on the tip of the wine bottle and nudged it so that it perilously rocked to one side. “And are interested, I still have a jihui set.”

Wrathion leaned in, propping his elbow on the table in a rogue-like gesture, resting his chin on his hand. “You and I both know that it will take more than one evening to complete a proper game of jihui, Your Majesty.”

Anduin hesitated, but clasped his hands between his legs, hair falling in curtains over his shoulders as he also leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Then you will just have to return to finish what we decide to begin tonight.”


	3. The Death of Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept 10th - Free Day (Jihui)
> 
> Tags/Content Warnings: alcohol, descriptions of injuries, chronic pain, depression

Twelve by twelve. Anduin remembered the numbers well. He had spent many restless days and nights counting them, one by one, imagining the combinatorics of pieces that could lay there. Twelve squares by twelve squares, arranged on a smooth velvet green board. Learning the game was one of the first things he’d managed after Garrosh Hellscream had broken every one of his bones. Balancing the board over his lap, practicing picking up the pieces and turning them around in his bruised fingers. When the weight of the mists pressed in from the atmosphere, pushing him into a deep depression, he could cling to the edge of lucidity by focusing on the grid and studying the engravings on the intricate game pieces.

Thinking about the game staved off twinges of pain. Memorizing classic moves distracted him from unwanted thoughts. He didn’t have to worry about the effort it took to just to switch positions between lying down and sitting up or maintain half of a conversation with a bedside visitor. He didn’t have to wonder how he would ever manage to get between his bed and the washroom on his own, nevermind keep pace with his father’s company marching across Pandaria. In those days, he tried to harness his worries by planning his next move. The worst consequences he needed to consider were well laid out in the script written by centuries of jihui masters, in the precious scrolls Tong the Mender kept in his game library. 

The sight of Wrathion’s hand moving across the board scattered Anduin’s thoughts. The dragon selected a piece between his long, slender fingers, dark claws glinting in the firelight. The king’s unfocused eyes followed his hand, mind churning with the dual thoughts of logical strategy and...

Wrathion cleared his throat, claws retreating from the board to rub his beard in a self-conscious gesture. Anduin felt his own brows lift upon making eye contact, Wrathion’s red eyes, subtle expression shifting beneath the strange red haze.

“I believe it is your move, Your Majesty.”

Anduin straightened his posture, attempting to find some dignity in his position. It was difficult to do, considering that they were both casually sprawled across the floor in front of the fireplace in his parlor. Over the past few months, they had started their games as was expected of two from noble birth: sipping alcohol and nibbling on sweets over an ornate tea table, tastefully perched atop the pillows of embroidered cushions on couches. They endured the strain of leaning over the game board, awkwardly balancing glassware between their knees as they swapped moves and traded stilted banter. 

The ache in Anduin’s leg drove him to make the journey to the floor first. It was more comfortable down on the rug, with all the space that he could want to stretch his limbs over pillows that would give his hips and back the support that he needed in the late hours of the evening. Wrathion thought nothing of it. The dragon barely blinked the first time the king sank off the sofa, cramming himself between the armrest of the couch and the border of the tea table, letting his legs sprawl underneath. Anduin’s chin would come to touch the edge of the hard tabletop as his quizzical grey-blue eyes observed the spread of the game board. The High King had done so countless times as a prince in Pandaria, cradling tall glasses of light beer on the floor of the game room in the Tavern in the Mists. Now, years older and miles away, he cradled wine made from Elwynn’s finest vineyards, sometimes a vial of painkiller, no less observant of his familiar opponent.

Anduin reached for a piece, trying not to let the subtle changes to Wrathion’s expression affect his movement. Wrathion had a poker face through obfuscation; it was difficult to gauge if the dragon smirked because he was pleased or displeased by the current standing of the game board. Anduin committed to the move that he’d planned, resting the piece down on its target square. He brushed his blond bangs back from his face, tinged red from the effects of alcohol and the generous heat from the fireplace.

“And now you, Your Highness.”

The smile that the address prompted from Wrathion’s mouth made Anduin’s heart leap in his chest, eyes quickly darting back to the game board. Anduin tried not to think about how much he enjoyed seeing Wrathion lounging on a bed of pillows before his hearth, silhouetted by the glow of the fire crackling in the mantle. He pushed back the anticipation of hearing the dragon laugh at something witty quip he’d managed in-between moves. He studied the possible next moves on the grid, to forget how much emptier the parlor would seem once the dragon left for the evening. He concentrated on the pieces, so that he wouldn’t have to think about how much he was already looking forward to Magni’s next dry, routine report from the Wound in Silithus.

“Anduin?”

Archers, for the focus that they required to string an arrow through a bow and mark their targets. Cavalry, for their reliability, they made the backbone of a player’s army. Kites, for the nimble speed with which they could cover great distances, connecting isolated armies, bringing hope from the sky. Knights, for their chivalry and devotion, their capabilty for carrying out difficult, nigh impossible tasks, in the name of their king...

“Anduin?”

“I’m sorry,” Anduin pressed his fingers into his closed eyelids. “I’m not sure where my mind wandered just now. Is it my turn again?”

Wrathion looked magnificent bathed in the evening candlelight. The red glow from his guarded, intelligent eyes reflected off both the white spellcloth of his fine tunic and his ivory pieces on the game board. He was reclining on his side, propped up on one elbow, long legs tucked beneath one another.

“Perhaps this would be a good time to interlude, my dear king,” he suggested, his familiar smirk easing across his handsome face and making Anduin’s stomach flip. “I wouldn’t want you to make an embarrassing error due to sleep deprivation.”

The abrupt threat of the night coming to an end, heralding Wrathion’s departure, brought an alarming feeling of despair to the king’s breast. Showing the dragon out, dousing the candles, getting ready for bed in complete silence, inevitably laying alone in the dark under the covers of his massive bed was shamefully too much to face.

“I know that you'd much rather I make an embarrassing error due to my own incompetence,” Anduin teased with his own attempt at a smirk to cover his despondancy, tucking his hair back behind his ear as he leaned over the board. “I’m not tired. Let’s go for another hour.”

“As you wish.”

Something about this phrase, the choice of words, Wrathion’s quiet, sincere tone, sent a wave of fire coursing through Anduin’s body from his gut, down to his toes, up to the tips of his ears. The king made his move and then tightened his grip around the pillow he clutched to his chest, sinking into its soft, supportive down. The high quickly dissipated and the utter absurdity of the situation came crashing over him like unruly surf. These evening games had gone on for far too long. Inviting Wrathion to dinner every visit was undoubtedly beyond a common courtesy. The late hours they spent talking and playing board games were far too intimate to still be considered a friendship. But he had no prior friendships to measure this strange relationship against. Was there even such thing as a _normal_ friendship for the High King?

Dark tendrils of doubt curled around Anduin's heart, making it beat with a kind of social terror. Had Wrathion taken his last words as an order? Was Wrathion trying to drop a subtle hint that he wanted to leave, to return to the comforts and privacy of the apartment he had rented somewhere in the Dwarven District, but considered it rude to take his leave for the night without the king’s permission? Had Wrathion picked up on his furtive loneliness? Did Wrathion _pity_ him?

“Anduin?”

The king tore his eyes away from the game board. Wrathion had made his move, but his crimson attention was on the mortal who lay on the floor across from him. Anduin felt the heat rush to his face, his entire body now trembling from some intense melding of emotions that he could not name.

“Is something the matter?”

Anduin realized, gazing back into the dragon’s calm but worried stare, that his fears were unfounded. Wrathion was a dragon, an almost immortal being, who would live longer than Anduin could conceivably imagine. Wrathion was nothing if not patient. And that was all he was doing, waiting to see if there was something between them, if there was a reason why the king continued to invite him back to his hearth. It was just like it was back at the Tavern. So many years had passed since then, a Legion had fallen, an Old God had retreated into the primordial recesses of the sleeping Titan's embrace, and the two of them had changed so much. But this, this was one thing that had stayed the same. Wrathion would not be the one to make the first move. But even a dragon would not waste an eternity waiting for a shy human king to make his affections known.

Anduin slowly uncurled his arms from the pillow and stifled a groan as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees. He could sense Wrathion freezing, long fingers tightening where he had them folded almost casually at the sash around his narrow waist. The dragon waited, still as a stone at the bottom of a pond, as the king crept across the board, planting his palms on the carpet between them. Anduin’s golden hair caught the firelight as it tumbled forward when he leaned in, inhaling the familiar scent of the dragon's skin. He hesitated just a moment, their noses almost brushing, giving Wrathion enough time to stop him, to push him, to do something. His breath hitched, accompanied by a surprised vermillion flutter of his eyelids, and Anduin swore he could hear the frantic beating of two draconic hearts within his chest. But Wrathion waited and after just a moment, Anduin closed the distance between them to finally lay a kiss upon his mouth.


	4. The Persuasions of Guinevere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept 12th - Serious Injuries
> 
> Tags/Content Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injuries, implications of sex, a bit of body horror/gore (memories of), panic attacks.

Wrathion rose to consciousness slowly, the weight of a dreamless sleep hanging over him like a fog. Disorientation drove him into an awakened state far sooner than he would have liked, his muscles tensing, arms pushing him upward with urgency. He realized, after a moment of panic, that he was not in his cot beneath a sand-coated canvas tent in Silithus. Neither was he within the spiced wooden walls of the tavern room he recalled renting in Old Town the day prior. He was staring at the draping layers of a thick velvet canopy, enveloping the area mostly in shadow. Soft fine white sheets fell around his waist and beneath him, his claws sank into the most comfortable mattress he could remember ever laying in. His head had risen from a mountain of pillows, all in varying shapes and sizes.

As Wrathion blinked and took in his surroundings, listening to the pounding of his two hearts within his ears, the tension in his shoulders slackened. Each strange, new detail was more benign and comforting than the next. Canopy drawn around the bed was parted just enough to let some of the warm morning light through in a long stripe across the bedspread. In the bright room beyond, a fresh salty breeze drifted in through the open windows along with the sounds of ocean waves and Stormwind City waking up. The bedsheets beside him were warm, and his ears pricked at the sound of faint, even breathing. He turned around and both hearts leapt at the sight of High King Anduin Wrynn, still deep in slumber, lying curled up and mostly buried under the covers beside him.

To Wrathion’s relief, his startled, jerking moments upon waking hadn’t jostled the king. Anduin slept peacefully, the muscles in his face only slightly tense, lips parted as he took evenly-spaced breaths. His soft, golden blond hair was unbound and loose over the pillows, aglow in the morning shade. His hands were curled under the pillow beneath his head, a bit of his scarred forearm peaking through the gap in the blankets. After a moment, Wrathion carefully slid back down and let his head come to rest on his own pillow, his nose inches from the king’s. He could only burrow so deep under the covers, seeing as Anduin had wrapped most of them around his own body at some point during the night, but Wrathion found he did not mind. The spring air was warm enough on its own, but he was an earth dragon. His own body heat would have done its part to keep the bed warm even without the dying fire in the bedroom’s hearth.

For a while, Wrathion simply lay there, watching the human sleep and breathe. There was something oddly comforting about it, sharing the space with a mortal, another being, whom he trusted utterly and completely. He struggled to put his claw on exactly why he enjoyed resting there by the king's side. Anduin was handsome, for certain. Lying this close and so still, Wrathion could make out details he had missed in the night hours: the faint shadows cast over his cheeks by his light eyelashes, an old white scar on his crooked nose, the hint of freckles on his fair skin from hours spent under the sun, the faintest cover of stubble on his unshaved jaw and chin. Anduin, who had invited him once again to his parlor for a night of Stormwind's finest cooking and board games. Anduin, who had listened to him prattle on for hours about Titan research and Silithus’ geography. Anduin, who had at last dropped his guard, crawled over, and kissed him…

The king let out a sudden low whimper, brows furrowing together and face tightening with tension. His arms closed around the pillow and he turned his face slightly into it. Wrathion held his breath, muscles once again growing tense all the way from his shoulders down to his heels. He wondered if Anduin was cold or in pain. He recalled many long nights at the Tavern when the then Crown Prince had been unable to sleep, getting up in the middle of the night to bring mugs of hot water and lemon to bed to hold between his hands while Wrathion sat in his true whelp form by his side or on his foot. Wrathion’s immediate thought was to draw himself nearer to share his body heat once again, but anxiety swelled in his chest at the thought. He realized that _he_ , too, craved the comfort of holding Anduin close. His scale-flecked, mortal cheeks grew hot at the sudden, stark memory of the previous evening. Why was the act of a simple embrace suddenly so obscene, now, under the cover of daylight?

Wrathion wondered if he should instead take the opportunity to collect his clothes and quietly depart. The comforts of a private room were waiting for him just a half hour's walk away in Old Town. He could enjoy a warm, greasy tavern breakfast and catch an easy ride to Duskwood this early in the morning. Anduin would probably be happier if he woke to find that his unexpected guest had departed, one less problem for the High King to deal with on the weekend morning. All Wrathion had to do was scoot backwards over the mattress, slide out onto the floor in a controlled, careful manner...

Anduin’s eyelids fluttered open.

Wrathion froze. The heat in his face erupted as he realized his hearts were now beating against the insides of his ribs, far too loudly to poitely escape a human’s level of hearing. Anduin did not seem at all perturbed to find a pair of burning red eyes observing him in the shade of his bed canopy upon waking. The king shifted on his pillow and inhaled deeply, his foot sliding somewhere deep beneath the covers as he stretched his leg while turning more completely onto his side. His tired, gray-blue eyes turned upwards towards Wrathion to study him for a moment from underneath his sleepy blond eyelashes.

“Good morning,” the king said, quietly.

“Good morning, Your Majesty.”

For a moment, they continued to regard one another in silence, listening to the birds chatter somewhere in the garden below. The bedsheet fell from Anduin’s shoulder as his hand slipped out from underneath the covers, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Wrathion’s face.

“How did you sleep?” the king asked, face still completely masked from emotion as his fingers traveled down the edge of Wrathion’s jaw.

_Better than I have in years._

“Quite well, thank you.” 

Wrathion found himself unwilling to say more, even as some quip about the luxury of Anduin’s bed sheets formed on the tip of his tongue. The moment felt fragile, like something that ought to be protected, for as long as they could manage it. He savored the feeling of Anduin’s curious fingers exploring his beard, wondering if and for how long the monarch might have felt an impulse to reach out and touch it like this. Unbidden, a faint rumble started in his chest, like a purr. Wrathion did not think he could blush any hotter, but upon hearing the sound, Anduin’s expression seemed to soften. The lines around the king’s mouth eased, even if it was not quite a smile.

“Are you hungry?”

The hand turned, knuckles brushing against the dragon’s cheek.

“I may be soon,” Wrathion offered, noncommittal.

Anduin hummed and nodded, reaching up to run his fingers through Wrathion’s hair again, tucking the strands behind his ear. Wrathion resisted the urge to shrug his shoulders against the movement. It tickled.

“Stay here and rest,” the king said. “I’ll see about having some food brought up.”

“Oh, no,” Wrathion found himself blurting under the shadow of Anduin’s hand across his face. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account, Your Majesty.”

Anduin’s mouth tightened into a small frown. Wrathion’s hearts continued to thud, the purring stopped, wondering if he had misspoke in his clumsy attempt to say: _My need to lay here with you in this bed is far greater than any desire to satiate my hunger._

“...don’t feel obliged to stay here,” Anduin said, at last, withdrawing his hand. His arm disappeared beneath the pillows once again. “I’m sure you have important things in the city to attend to.”

Wrathion felt his eyes widen a fraction, more red light spilling across the pillows between them.

“I could say the same thing to you,” he said.

Anduin’s frown eased a fraction and he relaxed once again into the pillows, shifting into a more comfortable position.

“It’s been some time since I’ve slept in,” he admitted. “...I’m not sure I remember how.”

Wrathion shrugged, letting himself stretch as well. The warmth of the mattress and the softness of the sheets was making the tension melt from his limbs. “It’s been some time since I’ve had a proper bed to sleep in at all.”

Anduin hummed and finally gave into a small, guarded smile, tucking his chin into the pillow as he cupped his warm, calloused hand beneath the dragon’s elbow. Wrathion decided to return the gesture, letting his own fingers run across the king’s arm. His dark claws unconsciously traced the lines of varying white scars that sliced through the pale skin, all the way to the king's shoulders. Anduin’s eyelids flickered self-consciously, a sudden bright red flush rising to his face in the shadow of the bed canopy.

“I’m sorry,” the king apologized, Wrathion’s hand knocked aside as he pulled the hem of the light bedsheet up to his chin. “I normally sleep with a shirt. I can put one on now, if you’d prefer.”

Wrathion cocked his head, his palm falling to rest over the now covered shoulder. “...would you ask the same of me?”

Anduin hesitated. “...no. Of course not.”

Wrathion risked tucking his thumb’s dark claw underneath the sheet, and Anduin did not resist as the dragon peeled it away. The king looked contemplative, his gaze growing distant as Wrathion resumed tracing the scars across his skin, starting from his shoulder to travel across his chest. Then, abruptly, Anduin slid forward, ducking his blond head as he snaked his arms around the dragon’s waist beneath the covers, pulling them closer. Wrathion could hear Anduin’s heart pound against his own chest as the king lay his body flat against his. Wrathion’s arms instinctively folded over Anduin’s back, running his hands across the king’s shoulder blades. The pads of his fingers explored the topology of old scar tissue and new muscle. Beneath it all, he could feel the faintest hint of the cold-burning Light that stitched the old fractures in his bones together. 

Wrathion felt the king shudder and bury his face into his collarbone, tucking his foot between the dragon’s shins, for a moment clinging to him with an intense ferocity. Wrathion began to stroke the king’s back, letting the feathery ends of his long blond hair tangle between his fingers. He felt the light brush of mortal eyelashes flutter lightly against his skin. The rumbling purr started again, Anduin making a small content laugh at hearing the sound.

Wrathion stared at the opposite side of the bed as he let his bearded chin press into the top of Andin’s head. Then, he squirmed slightly at the feeling of Anduin’s fingers running up his side, following the long, precise line of scar tissue that ran across there.

“You never did tell me how you got these.”

Wrathion opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. The instinctive smirk he wanted to respond with never reached its full potency. His claws dug into Anduin’s back as he felt a breath of hot, ash-tinged smoke escape from his lips. Anduin’s blunt nails pressing into his side melted into the potent memory of a knife cutting into him in neat, precise slices, peeling the skin back. Clawed hands reaching inside to push aside bones and scoop out some organs, sliding in others, the draconic language spoken in the distinct accent of the Red Dragonflight in the background as a needle pinched through, pulling taught medical thread through the flesh...

“...ion, Wrathion, _Wrathion_.”

The world around him came back into focus with the feeling of a gentle, cool white aura enveloping the edges of his vision. He realized that it was now Anduin who was cradling him, the king’s hands cupping his jaw, his own clinging to the sheets wrapped around the man’s waist. The details of Anduin’s face slid into focus, the faint constellations of freckles settling across his worried expression and clear blue eyes.

“ _Breathe_ , Wrathion,” Anduin ordered in a gentle but firm tone, in-between breaths of his prayer. _Holy Saa’ra, full of grace…_ “You’re having a panic attack. You need to take in more air. Inhale, slowly, deeply: _one, two, three, four…_ ”

It was easy to simply lie there and obey Anduin’s commands. Breathing came again, his lungs remembering what they were supposed to be doing, and he felt his grip loosen as his cheek sank into Anduin’s chest. To his horror, his eyes felt wet, and he was certain that it was too late to pull away before the king could feel the prick of tears against his chest. Neither of them moved, Anduin’s Light-blessed fingers running through his hair over his scalp.

Wrathion, at last, cleared his throat, smoky breath curling with the scent of charcoal. “...ah…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Anduin interrupted, sharply, continuing to use the Light to massage comforting waves into the tense muscles of his neck. “I’m sorry, I should have known better than to do that.”

“No, please think nothing of it.” Wrathion tried to keep his hoarse voice steady, but was unable to keep the tremor from his vowels.

He pushed himself away, subconsciously running his claws through his thick, dark hair. His red eyes darted around the bed, searching for something for his mind to find purchase on, to inspire some casual, intelligent remark to alleviate the situation. The king’s hand cupped his jaw, tilting his face up so that they were making grave eye contact once again.

“Prince Wrathion,” Anduin said. “I swear that, so long as you are within the walls of this Keep, you will be safe, so long as I reign.”

Wrathion's mouth opened to an utter loss for words. Had Anduin said this at any other time, it would have been met with some kind of cool remark, some reassurance that a dragon was not in need of the meager protections of a mortal priest king. But all he could manage was a faint rumble as he let his cheek nuzzle against the welcome comforts of Anduin’s outstretched hand.

“Please, rest,” Anduin urged. “Let me send for some food for you and something hot to drink. I’ll be right back.”

Wrathion, at last, nodded. He let himself arrange himself into a comfortable position amongst the nest of pillows, curling his knees toward his chest. Anduin sat up, scooting towards the edge of the mattress and pushing back the velvet canopy to reveal more of the room and allow more light to spill over the bed. Wrathion squinted his red gaze against the harsh wavelengths. The king bent forward, spine pulling taught at the skin on his back, and with a rattle of metal was at once standing on his crutches, making his way towards the closet to slip on a robe. Wrathion stared into the bedroom over the back of his hand resting on the pillow near his face, watching the morning breeze push against the sheer curtains from the tall bedroom windows.

He listened to the sounds of Anduin entering the parlor, ringing a bell. The heavy parlor doors opened and closed, interspersed with the sounds of someone exchanging words with the king. After a few more moments of Anduin rummaging for something in his study, and then the king returned, swinging on his crutches a bit more slowly than he had before. He had something tucked under one arm.

When Anduin was within range of the mattress, he tossed the thing down on the bedspread, making Wrathion arch a brow. Anduin let the crutches drop to the floor and slid across the mattress, scooting closer so that he sat with his hip pressed against Wrathion’s legs, the folds of his robe falling open. He rubbed his palm across Wrathion's calf, the warm tendrils of the Light once again seeping from his hands to course through and soothe the dragon's muscles.

“Forgive me, I think you have the honor of being the first to keep me company in this bed,” Anduin said with an apologetic grin, tucking his hair behind his ears. “So I'm not sure if this is considered to be an unusual activity, but, while we’re waiting for breakfast, I was wondering if you might be interested in a game of Hearthstone?”


	5. The Secrets of Morgaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept 13th - Undercover
> 
> Tags/Content Warnings: Alcohol

Wrathion stood with his hands planted on the dark sash tied across his hips. He hadn’t moved for a minute or so, light smoke curling from his nostrils on each exhale and escaping into the bathroom’s air.

“You’re joking,” he said, finally.

A very un-regal grin crossed Anduin Wrynn’s face. He looked very pleased with himself, dressed in a simple, button up red-and-black plaid lumberjack shirt and plain dark breeches. On his feet, he wore a pair of simple but seldom worn leather boots with one or two handmade scuff marks on the toes. His blond hair was tied into a small, tight bun at the back of his head, hairpins keeping most of his bangs from falling into his face. A black bandanna was tied high around his neck, falling down the front of his shirt collar. Wrathion watched as the king slipped on a hand-knit wool cap and tugged it low over his ears, so only his dark blond sideburns framed his face. A pair of large fogged glasses that had been sitting on the sink basin now perched on the bridge of his nose, the thin lenses cracked in one or two places. The dragon was loath to admit it, but his mortal eyes were beginning to see a different person, even if his nose was telling him otherwise.

“Can you even see out of those?” Wrathion asked, arching a brow.

“Mostly,” Anduin said with a shrug. “Are you ready?”

Wrathion sighed, looking down at himself. He hadn’t put nearly as much thought into his own outfit. Anduin had instructed him to dress “discreetly”, so he obliged by donning a long, dark tunic. The leaf pattern he had embroidered into the silk using charcoal spellthread was barely visible in the candlelight. He’d likewise slipped on a pair of dark green pants and soft black boots that made no noise when he walked across the floor. He had his own pair of glasses; goblin-made shades that were were folded in his chest pocket, for disguising the smoky glow from his red eyes.

The king stepped out of the bathroom and limped over to his bed, where a plain brown cloak was laid across the mattress. He fastened it around his broad shoulders, tugging on the clasp with his fingers, then slipped on a pair of leather gloves with the fingertips cut off.

“Are you certain about this?” Wrathion asked.

Anduin nodded and took a step closer, letting his hand rest on the dragon’s elbow. His eyes were bright with excitement, holding an uncharacteristic look of mischief, which Wrathion found to be simultaneously alarming and endearing.

“Yes, trust me, I do this…” the king hesitated, a somewhat crestfallen look flickering for a brief moment over his face. “...well, not often, but enough. It's safe.”

"Well, then." Wrathion took a step closer, gamely tucking his hands into his pockets and putting on his best rogue’s smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “By all means, Your Majesty, do lead the way.”

Anduin’s smile returned and he reached to take Wrathion by the hand.

Wrathion’s one condition was that he be allowed to cast an invisibility charm over the two of them, which Anduin gladly conceded to for their journey out of the Keep. Anduin did seem to be intimately familiar with the position and timing of his kingsguard’s patrols through the halls, almost down to each guard’s individual step. The invisible pair made their way down many narrow side passages through the old stone walls, passing through what seemed to be the servant’s quarters, then a large series of kitchens. Anduin led Wrathion out through a small wooden door and suddenly they were breathing in crisp autumn air and tip-toeing down a series of rickety stone steps into Stormwind Keep’s grounds. From there, it was a long walk through the city, where they caught a merchant preparing his cart to leave Old Town for Elwynn Forest. Anduin gave the farmer a piece of silver in exchange for a ride out of the city to the town of Goldshire, which the merchant needed to go through on his trip to Redridge. The dragon and the king were able to sit on the rear ledge of the cart with their backs pressed against bolts of fabric and old wooden trunks filled with nick-nacks, letting their legs dangle off the side. Anduin pointed out small landmarks along the road, their quiet conversation hidden by the sound of the horse team’s hoofbeats and the wagon wheels' creaks.

Once they'd said their goodbyes to the merchant, Anduin gave a small sweep of his red checkered arm.

“Welcome to Goldshire.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Wrathion replied, glancing up at the moon through the skeleton fingers of the dark branches overhead.

“Ah, that’s right," Anduin smiled sheepishly, letting his arm drop back down to his side. "You come through here every time you visit Stormwind.”

“Rarely at this time,” Wrathion granted with a toss of his hair and roll of his shoulders, not wanting to seem disdainful. "Towns often have a certain...intrigue in their evening hours that isn't present under the daylight."

The dragon had his hands tucked into his pants pockets, peering out at the word through the tinted lenses of the sunglasses, as he strolled to follow Anduin’s quick limping stride. The lanterns overhead cast strange shadows across the roofs and the orange red leaves of the trees. A few neighbors had turned out to talk to each other under their porches, sipping hot cider, eyes on their children playing tag in the dark, empty streets.

“Where are you leading us?” Wrathion asked when Anduin made a turn down a narrow side street instead of continuing up the bright main path towards the Lion’s Pride Inn.

“There’s a smaller tavern, down this way, that I like going to,” Anduin said. “The crowd is...friendlier. People ask fewer questions.”

A few dozen queries sprung to Wrathion’s mind all at once, but he decided to bite his tongue and trust the king. How dangerous could Goldshire be, anyways, to a dragon who had survived the wilds of Draenor and Ny’alotha?

When they arrived at the small rickety structure, almost at the edge of town, Wrathion raised both eyebrows, hesitating for a moment. It looked like any of the other run down buildings, but with a small wooden sign hand-painted with the name of the establishment and rows of well-tended violets lining the planters in the windowsills. A few hand-carved pumpkins adorned the porch, signaling the season. His nerves were put on edge by the sight of a group of men dressed in rough leathers sipping giant mugs of beer around a wooden table outside, lit by a few candles, playing cards. To his amazement, they barely gave Anduin’s form, hunched under his cloak, more than a passing glance and one of them even gave the dragon a respectful nod.

The inside was small and moderately crowded, not so much that maneuvering around the space was uncomfortable. Anduin made a beeline for a tiny table tucked by the side wall, where he at last removed his cloak. He maintained his ducking posture while he checked the brim of his hat and the knot on his bandana to make sure both garments were still covering as much of his body as he wanted them to.

“Would you stay here and hold the table?” he asked, once Wrathion had drifted to the stool next to his, just around the corner of the table. “I’ll go fetch some beers.”

Wrathion was about to open his mouth and ask if the king would be alright in the crowd on his own, but quickly shut it and nodded, sliding onto the rickety stool at the table. One of the legs was a maddening inch shorter than the others and he needed to keep one foot firmly planted on the floor to stabilize his seat. He kept the sunglasses on but had no trouble following Anduin’s tall form in the darkness, even with the king's distinct blond hair covered as he limped up to the bar. To his amazement, the king of Stormwind easily slipped in-between the crowd of swarming patrons, who barely took any notice of the young man as he inched his way towards the bartender’s line of sight.

The dragon took a moment to steal a glance around the room. The walls were covered with odd bits of memorabilia from across the Southern Eastern Kingdoms: a few totems from Stranglethorn, a couple of oil landscape paintings of Ellwynn’s farmland and seaside mountain ranges, Duskwood coven charms made out of twigs, pine needles held together with beeswax and twine. Across what looked like a door to the outhouse hung a golden cross-shaped piece in the shape of the symbol of the Church of the Holy Light along with one of its patron saints receiving a blessing from a naaru. Candles were lit everywhere, bathing the room in a warm glowing haze and casting long dark shadows below the tables. The floor was covered with peanut and walnut shells that crunched beneath everyone's boots as they moved.

Wrathion’s hackles were raised, but he did not notice anyone in particular staring at him. True to Anduin’s word, they had settled into the crowd without much trouble. The atmosphere was busy, but jovial. There were many smiling faces, but no one seemed to be getting particularly aggressive in a dangerous way over their drinks. A small cluster of men and women in one corner were even knitting over their beers and sharing big baskets of fried pieces of chicken with hot sauce and celery. Next to them, some kind of rowdy arm wrestling contest was underway.

After a few minutes, Anduin returned carrying two giant mugs of light-colored beer, a secretive smile on his face. He slid one across to Wrathion.

“What is it?” the dragon asked, nostrils flaring.

“It’s called ‘blue ribbon.’” Anduin reached for a salt shaker at the end of the table. Before Wrathion could stop him or ask what he was doing, the king began tapping out a generous amount of salt into each glass. The beer heads frothed vigorously under the granules. “This night during the week they sell it on tap for only half a copper each!”

“Indeed,” Wrathion said, eyeing his own beer skeptically as Anduin took a large swig from his. “But, is it worth even the half copper?”

Anduin let his mug drop down on the table, an excited flush rising to his face as he leaned over the sticky table, so close their noses were almost touching, as if he were about to explain some kind of Titan’s secret. 

“No! It tastes horrible, in fact, that’s why it’s so cheap,” he raised a finger, pointing to the dragon's mug. “ _But_ , that’s what the salt is for. It adds flavor and gives it more of a head!”

Wrathion blinked twice. Faced with the utter sincerity on Anduin’s handsome, open face, he found he did not have the heart to question this information. He hadn’t seen Anduin so happy, so...relaxed….since they were camping on the Timeless Isle. Maybe even before that, when he wasn’t under so many watchful Alliance eyes and they were both renting rooms underneath Tong’s roof on the Veiled Stair. Anduin perched on the edge of his stool, appearing at cursory glance to look calm and cool, but his grey-blue eyes were brimming with anticipation. So Wrathion did what he felt like he must: he picked up the mug, took a breath, and threw back a long swig of salted beer.

True to the king’s word, it did taste terrible, horrible, even, but certainly not undrinkable. Anduin seemed to be leaning in again, eager for the dragon’s assessment.

“I’ve certainly had worse,” Wrathion felt an uncontrollable smile creep over his face. “And it is, after all, genuine human beer. Did I tell you about the time I developed a stomach for draenei moonshine?”

“No,” Anduin barked back a laugh, beer sloshing over the side of his mug as he struggled to regain his composure. “I can only imagine. I lived in the Exodar for a while and I know they’re quite ingenious. They spent many years traveling through the ether perfecting their ability to brew incredibly strong liquor using very few ingredients!”

Wrathion smiled and was about to elaborate when he was interrupted by the approach of another human, a short woman with a pile of brown hair pinned at the top of her head in a messy pile. She carried a large wooden tray over one small shoulder and had a notebook tucked in the pocket of the apron she wore over her practical tan dress.

“Ah, Jerek, good to see you again,” she greeted the king, sweeping around to his side of the table. She brought the tray down to rest on the edge and planted her free hand on her hip. The king smiled and ducked his head, murmuring a quiet greeting as he stared down into his beer and checked the brim of his hat again. “Hello, I see you’ve brought a new friend with you tonight.”

Wrathion tensed under the new scrutiny, but he gave the woman a sure smile in return. “It is a pleasure.”

“Why, thank you, good sir,” the barmaid said with a half-hearted curtsey, pushing strands of hair from her brow. She was barely containing her secretive smile as she looked between the pair. “Will you be needing any food this evening? We have plenty of potatoes and fresh pretzel dough out back ready for frying.”

Wrathion looked to Anduin for guidance, who gave him an apologetic smile. “No, thank you. I think we’ll just tend to our beers this evening.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Give a shout if you change your mind,” The barmaid gave Wrathion a wink. “Jerek here is the sweetest patron we’ve ever had darken the doors of this establishment. You're lucky to have his ear.”

Wrathion laughed good naturedly, partially to be amicable, but also at the red blush that now covered Anduin’s entire face and undoubtedly his chest and ears beneath his clothes. Anduin instead returned to tucking into his beer.

“...are you enjoying yourself?” the king asked, suddenly, sounding almost concerned as he glanced up from his mug. “We can go back any time if you'd rather…”

Wrathion smirked and leaned in on his hand, letting his dark hair fall over his shoulder.

“It’s a beautiful crisp autumn night and I have the fortune to be spending it on having new experiences with good company,” he nudged the side of the king’s left foot with his toe under the table. “Of course I am enjoying myself.”

Anduin blushed. The resulting grin that crossed his face made Wrathion feel as if he had won some kind of game.

“...are you staying for another night?”

Wrathion reached over with gentle, swift claws to neatly tuck a stray strand of blond hair back behind Anduin’s ear, beneath his cap. “Yes, my dear king. If you will have me, of course.”

Anduin laughed quietly, eyes shining, face still hot and red. For a moment, he looked off towards the side of the tavern, where space had been cleared away so that members of a small bluegrass band could set up their instruments. His gaze was unfocused.

“...ah, forgive me," Anduin said after a moment. "…I’m just so...glad…”

He reached across the corner of the table, the cuffs of his sleeves slipping up his forearms. His gloved hands wrapped around Wrathion’s, taking the dragon’s long palms into his. The tips of his fingers through the cuts in the leather were cold against the dragon's bare, burning skin.

“...I’m so glad to have you,” Anduin said, softly.

Wrathion felt his own controlled, cool expression slip. He squeezed his fingers, claws digging lightly into Anduin’s gloves as he returned the gesture. The fiddler cried out and stomped his heel as he struck up the band’s first song for the night. Loud music swelled from their deft hands into the rafters. Sitting there surrounded by strangers, not saying a word to each other at the edge of the tavern’s crowds, the warmth of the beer filling his breast and Anduin Wrynn’s hands interlaced with his, Wrathion allowed himself to succomb to the utterly contented feeling of being completely at home.


End file.
